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@djdubu 2020.10.08 Instagram Update

working hard or hardly working? 💚🤫💚

#dubu.jpg #era:the table #it's sweater season

pgeun:

The waiting room drag comes around by the time it turns 3PM. Like, who the hell wants to be sitting around in these clothes, anyway? And when the ruckus from the next room filters over through the walls, all he can think is… A headache. He has a damn headache.

So naturally out he goes, sigh heavy on his lips when he pushes the door open. Granted, what (or rather, who) he doesn’t expect to see is, oh my God—

“Dujae sunbae,” Eundam calls out before he even realises he does, voice reverberating in the empty hallway. So, okay, his mouth is working quicker than his mind right now, nothing new. A split second passes as he contemplates turning back and pretending nothing’s happened, but dude. It’s now or never.

Fucking now.

And look, he’s not some damn rookie…

His cheeks flush with colour, because what the hell. Eundam is not not cool, so if he could just get it together and stop being the teenage fanboy he is—Jesus Christ.

… Then maybe he should stop acting like one.

“I’m… Go Eundam, from Over Out. Zircon’s boy band? Jisung’s bandmate?”

He needs to pee. Very badly, if he might have the privilege of adding.

Inkigayo: While a meditative walk down the building’s waxy white hallways might inspire catharsis on any other day, the trek today is nothing short of punitive.

Could be the faces plastered on the walls making it worse, idol after idol baring sets of perfectly veneered teeth at him and appearing to delight in the duress of Dujae’s pressing bladder. You’re not gonna make it, bud—the chorus chants.

The omen kicks into full gear as Dujae screeches to a full stop. His junior, is it... this can’t be good. Not for his kidneys, anyway. He steels himself into a hardened smile not unlike the ones printed around them.

Here’s a nice face he swears he’s seen at least a hundred times and yet something something something Jisung. OK, good enough, this is the only information he manages to catch and will now be taking advantage of. “Oh whoa, yeah! It’s so nice to meet you.” Finally, for good measure? “Finally!”, for good measure.

“You on your way to the bathroom too?”

There’s a mania to his voice that he recognizes as foreign, and for which he’d like to kick himself. But with his feet already on the move again, he simply can’t afford the luxury.

#pgeun #thr: overhaul

pgsuran:

she isn’t as adept at acting as if nothing’s ever happened. to suddenly erase history, even if it has been years. honestly, suran’s not even capable of keeping herself from overstepping. else, why would she be here? slipping into kim dujae’s house in his slippers on a wednesday night.

“probably.” she follows behind him, eyes lowering to watch him hobble along the way. there’s a pang of guilt here, a sour fluttering in her chest that suran snaps her jaws around if only to keep herself from at an optimal neutral lukewarm temperature.

her eyes flitters up to dujae’s face when he speaks, blinking slowly before lifting the bag in her hand. “yup. ko-suran-was-more-or-less-responsible special delivery.” more more than less. but he doesn’t need to know that. she manages a hint of a smile, setting the bag on the counter to unload the contents.

“you didn’t eat right?” she meets his gaze, “i’ll make you something.” then, as if she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, she beelines for the apron hanging off the side of the fridge.

“you should probably elevate that leg too—do you have an ice compress or something?”

If there was ever a fail-proof ice-breaker, a stay in the equatorial heat of a Maldives jungle would be it.

They’re wading through puddles in the aftermath. Wet socks, palpable discomfort, but wait a second, backtrack, was that a smile? Dujae blinks. He’d seen her throw a few out in the wild, and sure, there was always the smile she reserved for broadcasts, but here in the tame lull of his Seoul apartment, it's uncanny. He observes wordlessly as she empties the bag.

He does as he’s told, guiding his leg onto the next barstool with both hands. “Just hot-cold packs.” Dujae answers nonchalantly, but he’s wary. She’s wearing his apron—his cooking show guest appearance gifted and thereon neglected kitchen decor accent piece apron—and it fits like a charm.

“What’s on the menu?” He ventures after a short beat. Suran’s pierced open a pack of tofu. He adds, equal parts stop and go, “Don’t tell me...” A peace offering, episode two, “a berry smoothie?”

#pgsuran #thr: now?

Visit Original Link

Kim Dujae (DJ of MY*MYND) — Was it a Coincidence? More Than Friends OST

#dubu.wav

pgsuran:

it’s a short ride there. at least, it is when your mind is busy with unfavorable recollections of the past. a dreary reminder of things not to repeat in the future. and yet, you’re heading to his place now. lips twisting into a frown, she pulls her mask further up the bridge of her nose, careful to keep her face hidden the whole way through. there’s a brief moment of hesitance, evident in the way she paces back and forth before biting the bullet to hit the buzzer. can’t chicken out now.

though, she wasn’t sure what she expected. what she intended out of making the trip here. eyes boring a hole into the wood of the door, suran tries to realign her priorities. this is an act of guilt. not an olive branch.

then, the door opens.

“hey,” suran arches a brow, giving him a cursory glance over. “no, not really.” you’re a little stiff. yeah, she knows. she waits for him to step aside to step in, pulling down the cloth on her face while glancing around his flat, nose scrunching slightly in distaste. well, can’t say she’s surprised.

“…nice place.” you don’t mean that. suran turns to face him after slipping off her shoes, zeroing in on his hurt ankle. “should you be on that?”

It’s too casual for comfort. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t believe the casual affect for a second—his own included. Still, he bends down to grab a pair of house slippers from the cubby, sliding them towards Suran’s feet.

“Thanks.” She doesn’t mean that. Dujae’s place has half a mind of its own and he’s painfully aware of it now, peering into the darkness of the living room to catch the tell-tale glint of several fingerprint-laden water tumblers and misplaced record covers. “And no. Probably a bad idea.” Among others. But now he’s now painfully aware of his ankle, and he hobbles onto the other foot. And then again, and again, limping carefully to a stool at the kitchen island.

He nods towards the bag in her hands. “Special delivery?” Goes without saying—special as it gets.

#pgsuran #thr: now?

pgsuran:

[18:50] 💬 i don’t eat after 6

she pauses here, thumb stagnant on the screen of her phone for a brief moment before setting it on the table in favor of turning to the fridge, pulling the door open to pull out a few choice items. (thought process here is: might as well, right? if she’s going to go all the way there. might as well) today’s leftovers (grilled meat) and ingredients for doenjang jjigae. unnecessary. she repeats in her head while bagging everything up. completely unnecessary.

yes, but you feel bad. the tinny voice rings in her head, she pulls a frown here, scoffing under her breath and heading for the door.

now that she has nothing to say to.

[18:55] 💬 i’m omw

The buzzer goes off—he stumbles gracefully into the hallway to push for the unlock downstairs. Saves them both the hassle of intercom niceties and bides his time meticulously gathering his thoughts (and failing to spare a single one on the ensemble of t-shirt and sweats reflected in plain sight across from him). Lips flattening, Dujae has only the slightest inkling what this might all be about, but he’s not about to give into suspicion when there’s little to go on but single-word replies and the sudden recoil of time.

For all those years of sustained ear damage it comes as a surprise he picks up on the rustling plastic outside his door. And then it’s quiet for a while.

He doesn’t bother waiting around for the knock.

“Hey...” Dujae greets, expression glassy. “Not too hard to find, hopefully?”

#pgsuran #thr: now?

pgsuran:

[18:49] 💬 yes.

this was a bad idea. no matter how she looked at it, it was a bad idea. but suran supposes it’s unavoidable. especially when she is the cause for his sprained ankle. judo flipping him six ways from sunday (as instructed) and enjoying it too. still, this was a bad idea. suran looks over to the bag of i’m obviously doing this because i feel guilty patches and compression wraps. teeth raking over her lower lip in thought. briefly, she considers the matter of boundaries, toeing the line of their already complex history, and the time. well, might as well.

[18:50] 💬 did you eat?

↳ 18:50: not yet ↳ 18:50: you?

He can’t help but compare the pith of their present exchange to the heavily punctuated, prematurely curtailed counterpart of five years past. Both seem to spell out the very same: bad news.

Don’t scroll up.

Training his eyes anywhere but the screen of his phone, he springs off the fridge to yank the door wide open, checking for its contents. The sad reality of a liberated bachelor: last night’s leftovers and three individual-sized airlock containers of banchan. Kloud beer. Cherry tomatoes. Eggs. Exactly two.

#pgsuran #thr: now?

now?

@pgsuran

고수란 ↳ 18:47: it’s [XXX]-ro [XX]gil [XX] in yeoksam

Color him confused—brows knotting like wrangled thread, Dujae props himself against the fridge door, its cool sleek facade fighting against his quickly warming body. His thumb swipes and he blows an unwitting whistle. There she is: top of his Kakao pecking order, never thought he’d see the day. Ankle throbbing like a bad omen, he leans harder to his left side to punch in his follow up.

↳ 18:48: you’re coming over? or

#thr: now?#pgsuran